The Raphael Affair

12

Bottando groaned with impatience as the telephone rang once again. He’d had a dreadful morning. His secretary, hand-picked for her ability to persuade callers to go away, was sick. The very defensiveness he complained about in Tommaso’s secretary, he treasured in his own.

In her absence, all the calls came straight through to his phone. Bottando had never realised there were so many; he’d managed to achieve virtually nothing all day. At first, he’d attempted just to let the thing ring and pretend to be out, but he couldn’t stand the thought of missing something important. Some of the calls, at least, had justified his weak will. He had been busy, although his colleagues would have been a little surprised at his occupation. He was reading through his old cases, a carefully stuck-down folder of newspaper clippings reporting on his past triumphs. The past failures, of course, he left out. Lots of policemen have such things; it works wonders for promotion to be able, casually of course, to hand over accounts of how wonderful, how zealous and how effective you’ve been. Even if the opinions are only those of journalists, it looks good.

So he had the folder, which he occasionally took down and flicked through for nostalgic reasons. It also boosted his confidence when things were not going so well. Look, the folder told him, don’t worry, see what you’ve achieved before. He was reading through an account of his great triumph in the Milan financial scandal. It reassured him he hadn’t lost his touch.

The phone rang once more, and once more he lifted the receiver. ‘ProntoBottando,’ he said, all in one, weary, word.

‘General, Ferraro here. I was wondering how the investigation was coming along.’

Bottando repressed a sigh as best he could. The man had become as much a menace as Tommaso. If one was nervous and irritable, the other was showing signs of having a breakdown. It was about the tenth call in two days. No form of vagueness, obstruction or even downright rudeness seemed to put either of them off. They had become obsessed with the Raphael, its authenticity, and demands that the culprit be found. Both of them had a lot at stake. At least this time he had something to report.

‘Quite well,’ he said. ‘My assistant has just rung to say that she is coming back to Rome this afternoon, bringing that man Argyll in tow. He seems to think he is making progress in the hunt for our missing artefact.’

‘Excellent. And where is it?’

‘That I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. Argyll is a man with an overdeveloped sense of drama. Flavia says he is keeping it as a surprise.’

‘Oh. Well, as long as he’s right this time. His track record in these matters is not so good, after all,’ the voice on the other end of the line sounded disappointed.

‘I appreciate your concern. We are also making some progress in other areas as well. But again, I can’t tell you much, if you don’t mind. Or rather, I’d prefer not to.’

‘That’s quite all right. I understand. My concern is the Raphael. The criminal side of things is your business, I suppose. But please remember I want to be kept informed.’

‘How could I possibly forget? Don’t worry. I’ll come round to the museum later and brief you and the director fully.’

It seemed worth trying as a way of deflecting further phone calls, anyway. Tiresome man. At least Tommaso was off the hook: he had an unbreakable alibi for Manzoni’s murder. Dinner with the prime minister was fairly convincing. God only knew what they must have talked about. He shuddered at the thought. Ferraro had worked late in the museum and was seen leaving at nine o’clock, which seemed to take him out of the running, as well.

Bottando tried to get through some small routine tasks necessary to keep his superiors off his back, but abandoned the work after an hour. The phone was still going, and his head was starting to ring in sympathy. As was his stomach: he had not had any lunch yet, and it was already half three.

He went over to the bookshelf in his office, removed a thick volume, and walked out of the door. If he was going to read, he would do it in a restaurant, the book propped up on a roll of bread, with a plate of pasta in front of him. Where no more phone calls could disturb his peace for an hour.

They noticed him still sitting at his table in the Piazza del Collegio Romano, as they drove through in the taxi from the airport to the office. It was an eccentric route, but the driver insisted on the deviation, explaining that there was a demonstration at the end of the Corso and the more direct way was jammed solid with a screaming mass of protestors.

Flavia yelled to stop the taxi when she saw him, they paid, and joined him at his table. It was a restaurant he used often, one of the few that was willing to serve up food at such a late hour. In most, the diners had long since been hurried away, the tablecloths shaken off and the doors closed. For the tourists, who made up the majority of eaters at this time of year, there was little else to do for the next few hours but return to their hotels, sit on the edge of a fountain, or return to the foot-blistering work of hammering over the hard cobbles in search of more artistic delights.

Bottando fussed round them and insisted on summoning the waiter for some food. ‘You must be starving. Some good food will work wonders for you. I remember well what London restaurants are like.’ He made a good-natured face and beamed at Argyll, who was a little surprised at the amiable reception.

‘Mr Argyll, I’m pleased to meet you at long last. I gather you have made another great discovery. I hope you are right this time.’

Argyll shrugged. ‘I think so. By a process of elimination I’m bound to get there eventually.’

‘It’s the elimination bit that worries me. Must it be taken so literally?’

Argyll laughed a little awkwardly, and Bottando politely suspended the conversation while they ate. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ Flavia enquired.

‘This? Oh, this is the bible.’ He read them the spine of his book, ‘Who’s Who in Art. A positive treasure trove of useful information. Full of unsuspected details about our friends, colleagues and enemies.’

He flicked through some pages. ‘Take, for example, my dear friend Spello. To look at him you’d never suspect he was once a senior advisor to the Vatican, back in the 1940s, would you? Such an unkempt man. And they’re such snappy dressers at the Vatican. He must have been very young. I imagine he considered he had a great career ahead of him, rather than merely a secondary position buried in Etruscan statuary. Or that our beloved minister, a very lumpy dolt of military aspect and no apparent delicacy whatever, has a passion for bonsai gardening? Or that Tommaso’s secret desire is to be a painter?’

‘It says that?’

‘Not exactly. But he told me he plans to retire and paint at his villa, and it says here that he once trained at an art school. In Lyons, no less. So, I conclude that he really wanted to be a painter. Evidence plus logical analysis. That’s detection.’

‘And now I suppose you are going to say he was wonderful at it and made a particular study of Raphael?’

‘No, Flavia, no. Would that it were so simple and easy. Alas, poor man, I think he was probably not good at all, and had the sense to look after the paintings of others rather than create his own. Besides, one of the few things we’ve established is that, if it was a fake, then Morneau was the faker. What we need now is proof of something. Which is a task you seem to have taken upon yourselves. So, tell me. Where is it?’

‘Siena,’ Argyll replied simply. Bottando looked surprised. ‘Are you sure? How do you come to that conclusion?’

‘Because it’s the only conclusion to come to. It wasn’t in the Clomorton collection, it wasn’t in the di Parma collection, and it has disappeared. Therefore...’

‘Therefore...?’ prompted Bottando.

Argyll looked superior. ‘I don’t think I’ll tell you. I might still be wrong. Anyway, you have the facts. You can work the rest out yourself. Evidence plus logical analysis, General. That’s detection.’

‘Very funny. Still, as long as I know where you’re going, and as long as you find the thing, I suppose the details can wait. Are you going up there?’

‘Tomorrow morning. I don’t think there’s any need to rush up immediately. I think it’s quite safe for the time being,’ Flavia answered, then broke off to order a coffee. It would play havoc with her stomach juices, but she reckoned she needed something to sip.

‘It may be, but you may not. Some protection might be a good idea when you go,’ Bottando continued.

Flavia shook her head again. ‘No. If we go roaring up the autostrada in a fleet of armed police cars there’ll be an enormous fuss. Initially it’ll be much better to go up quietly and check the thing out. Then you can put as many armed guards around us as you like. The more the better, in fact. But if we go clomping about the place like that, someone will talk. And it’ll be all over the newspapers tomorrow morning. Just make sure you keep it to yourself.’

‘Yes. You are possibly right. What time will you go?’

‘First thing tomorrow morning. Before that I need to draw some money, make out an expenses slip to catch the deadline for the next paycheque, have a nice shower, and collect some clothes.’

‘Tell me where to find you. Oh, by the way, you might want to look at this.’ He reached into his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper.

‘Telex from Janet. Poor man complains about having to do so much work for us, but don’t let that concern you. I’m sure he got someone else to do it for him. He’s been tracking down picture-buying. Score, Byrnes three, Morneau six, everybody else, nil.’

‘May I?’ said Argyll, reaching over to take it. He unfolded it and read the communication carefully.

‘That’s it. That must be it.’ He pointed at a line of type after a few moments’ perusal. ‘“Portrait of a lady, copy after Fra Bartolommeo.” Three thousand Belgian francs, to Jean-Luc Morneau. Seventy centimetres by a hundred and forty. Right size, more or less, and about the right age. Right style. That would have been perfect. Your colleague didn’t send a photograph as well, did he?’ he asked hopefully.

Bottando rummaged around in his pockets once more. ‘Yes,’ he said, handing over another sheet of paper. ‘Not very good, I’m afraid. Just a photocopy from the sale catalogue. Pretty good service though, don’t you think?’

Argyll was too busy looking at it to reply. He handed it over to Flavia, a satisfied look on his face. She looked disappointed. It was, in truth, unimpressive: very dirty, a three-quarter-length of a large middle-aged woman with a prospective double chin and a few other obvious attractions. Dressed in a dark, full-sleeved dress. Black hair, as far as he could tell through the dirt, and overloaded with vulgar jewellery: a tiara, a vast necklace and a thick, intricate ring.

‘Not a great loss if it was used. The portrait of Elisabetta he put on top was much better,’ she commented.

‘True. But look at the window and external scenery in the left background. Very similar to the fake Raphael, and exactly where the tests were taken. I think that’s pretty conclusive, myself.’

Bottando nodded approvingly. ‘You’ve got a good eye,’ he said. ‘I noticed the same thing myself, with a photograph of the Raphael to help.’

‘Which proves Morneau painted it, and that lets Spello off the hook,’ Flavia added with satisfaction.

‘Alas, no. Morneau was also an advisor to the Vatican, back in the 1940s, and he must have known Spello then. That’s one example of why these books are so useful.’

He got up and brushed breadcrumbs from his lap. ‘Time to get back to the office. I have to work even if you two don’t.’

They parted, Flavia and Argyll heading east, while Bottando walked back to the office. He was worried. He hadn’t mentioned it to Flavia, not only because Argyll was there, but also because he didn’t want to concern her unnecessarily. But he knew he was about to take a huge risk with them. And it concerned him greatly.

Less burdened with cares than Bottando, Flavia and Argyll spent a delightful evening, once the business of washing themselves and clothes, and other domestic matters had been taken care of. Flavia had put on the washing machine, opened her mail and fussed about the apartment while Argyll had read some of the books he had brought with him.

While he sat with his leg over the arm of her one comfortable seat, he read out extracts from the books he was looking through. This was a change from the plane flight home, when he had read intensely and said scarcely a word. Flavia had noticed that a guide book to the Palazzo Pubblico in Siena had been one of the volumes.

Argyll laughed. ‘Listen to this. It’s a letter from Viscount Perceval about Lady Arabella. A great diarist and observer of eighteenth-century London, that man. She gets more and more remarkable every time I come across her. It wasn’t only husband two who had wayward habits. Number one also couldn’t keep his hands to himself either. She broke a cello over his head at a royal levee because of it. Then tried to beat him up with her fists. In public. Must have made everybody’s evening.’

Or later: ‘Another bit. Clomorton told the Duchess of Albemarle he was in love with a “dark-haired beauty”. That was a mistake, poor sod. He must have known she was the worst tattle-tale in London. Perceval says she wrote to Lady Arabella directly. That must be what she was talking about in that letter I read you in London. Think of the reception the poor man would have got. Luckily for him he dropped dead first.’

‘What are you reading this for? Does it have anything to do with Siena?’

‘No. I was just looking to see if there was any mention of Sam Paris, Raphael or whatever. A very arty man, Perceval, and a great observer of the London scene. Nothing happened without him noticing it and jotting it down in his diary. A Raphael on the market, or a scandal about one, would be in here somewhere. There isn’t, which makes me more convinced I’m right.’

‘Are you going to tell me? Or am I to be treated like the General?’

He took her hand and kissed it absent-mindedly, letting go when he realised what he’d done. ‘Silly. Of course not. After dinner you will hear all.’

They had ended up digesting their evening meal by walking blissfully around the city. Flavia pointed out to Argyll her favourite buildings and spots; they had wandered around the old ghetto, looking affectionately at the run-down buildings, Imperial fragments and tranquil, beautiful piazzas that suddenly appear as you turn unpromising-looking corners. Argyll gave an impromptu disquisition on the beauties of the Farnese Palace. Flavia wasn’t entirely persuaded, but liked his sense of conviction. She had responded by dredging through the memories of her university days and identifying all the large medallions on the Palazzo Spada a little down the road.

‘I can do that too,’ Argyll said. ‘Come with me.’ He grabbed her hand and led her to the other side of the Piazza Farnese, down the via Giulia and then left down a side street. He pointed to an emblem above one of the large wooden gates that shut prying eyes from the courtyard beyond. ‘There. Two pelicans intertwined, surmounted by a crown and the symbol of a castle. Whose is it?’

Flavia chewed her lip for a moment. ‘Don’t know. Whose?’

‘That’s the di Parma symbol. This was their Roman palace.’

She grinned. ‘So this is where it all started. I knew the palace was around here somewhere, but I never got around to looking. What’s in there now?’

‘Just apartments, I imagine. It looks very tatty. The point is, however, that Mantini lived there, which explains why he was brought in for this job in the first place.’ Argyll pointed to a door a few yards up on the other side of the street.

‘As for the picture,’ he went on, ‘the di Parmas didn’t have it, nor the Clomortons, nor the dealer Sam Paris. Mantini was the only man involved who was left. Lots of motive as he was always hard up. Or maybe love of the painting was more important and he didn’t want it to leave Italy and be bought by a clod like Clomorton. So he paints over the Raphael, makes a copy of the same picture which he gives to the dealer, and keeps the real thing himself.

‘He couldn’t uncover it either, because he lived almost next door to the di Parmas, who might have got upset. But there’d be no rush if he wanted the picture for itself, not the money it could bring. So it could sit there and wait until he retired back to his home town, or something.

‘But he never made it to retirement. He has a seizure and dies in 1727, at the age of fifty-two. Perfect health, just drops dead one afternoon in the street. No time, you see, for deathbed confessions or secret instructions about his picture. His daughter inherits his small fortune and remaining pictures. She returns to her father’s native paese, where she marries a silversmith.’

‘Siena.’

‘Quite right. And he, because silversmiths were highly thought of, gets on the town council and dies, wealthy and greatly respected, in 1782. And he leaves to the city a couple of pictures. One portrait of himself, naturally, and the other a memento of that great Sienese painter, his own father-in-law, the superlative Carlo Mantini.’

‘Very good. But how do you know it’s the right one?’

‘Because it must be. Process of elimination. It’s a ruin, which fits in with the evidence available, and it’s the only picture which could possibly have concealed the Raphael.’

This was the weak spot in an otherwise convincing argument, the area his supervisor would have pounced on, had he been there to listen. But he wasn’t, and Flavia said nothing, so he hurried on. ‘I did about a month’s work in a day and a half. Quite a lot of shortcuts, I admit. But if no one else has it, and they appear not to, it’s the only other possibility. I hope you’re proud of me.’

Flavia patted him on the back. ‘Well done. Now all we have to do is go there and see if you’re right. Come on. Let’s go home.’